


The Sound Of Victory

by templeofelgarnan



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Gang World, Alternate Universe - Mob, Borderline Personality Disorder Patroclus, C-PTSD Patroclus, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Infidelity, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revenge, unreadable Achilles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 19:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8069599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templeofelgarnan/pseuds/templeofelgarnan
Summary: How far would you go for revenge?





	1. A Lion With Green Eyes.

He dreams of a lion. It looms over him, as if it has just pounced on him, and growls. It bares its teeth in a menacing way that, had he been born stupid, been younger, or perhaps even been less afraid, might have compared to a smile. But he is not stupid. He is not a child. He is terrified. So terrified that he does not even dare to move. In fact, all he dares to do is to gaze into the lions predatory eyes. Green eyes: green like Olympus Park in the spring.  _ What kind of lion has green eyes? _ he wants to ask, but never can. Sometimes he thinks that he doesn’t have a tongue in these dreams.  _ Cat got your tongue?  _ His foster father laughed when he tried to tell him about these dreams. At the time, he just kept quiet and shook his head. The older man might not have been a lion, but his gaze was still intimidating enough to remind Patroclus of his place. 

 

Even if he could talk in the dreams, Patroclus knows his question is useless- a mute point.  _ A lion with green eyes. _ Green eyes that burn through him and destroy all that he is. He knows exactly who this lion is, or rather, who this lion is supposed to be: a reflection of light streaming through the stained glass of his subconscious, and coloring his dreams with his trauma.  _ A lion with green eyes and a name.  _

 

Sometimes there are others in the dreams. They appear with spears and wear torn chitons. Sometimes they are hunting the lion. Sometimes they are hunting Patroclus. Sometimes they come for neither in particular, angry and full of bloodlust. Whatever their motives, and for whatever reason, the lion always fights them.  _ A lion with green eyes and a name.  _ He protects Patroclus, and Patroclus finds him dream self wanting to protect him in return. But when he is awake- shaking and trying in vain to light up a cigarette at 2 am- he wonders if the only reason the lion protects him is so the lion can kill Patroclus himself.  _ A lion with green eyes and a name and who protects him.  _

 

\---

 

His waking hours are filled with training. Filled with the same pain, same burning desire to succeed and see the fat bastard that is his foster father smile. Agamemnon never does, of course. The man prefers to leave Patroclus constantly confused as to whether he is actually doing well or not, and thus making Patroclus try thrice as hard as he normally would to earn a compliment. When Agamemnon does grace his young ward with kind words it is done only at random. Sporadically. The desire to please burns under Patroclus’ skin just as brightly as his hatred.

 

He is conflicted, torn, and bored. Sometimes at night he lays awake; he finds staring at his ceiling to be much more comforting than the dreams.  _ A lion with green eyes and a name.  _ He thinks of his dead parents, and wonders if they can see him from wherever they are. Patroclus know his father had been friends with Agamemnon ( _ and, _ he thinks bitterly,  _ Peleus _ ), and because of this he thinks that his relationship with his foster father is not that different from the relationship he would have had with his actual father. It's a weak attempt at self comfort, but an attempt none-the-less. Even so, he cannot help but feel like he is a shell from the man he would have been, had his parents been around. Had his mother, at least, been spared. 

 

A few years ago, when he was first removed from the orphanage and put under Agamemnon’s care, there was a numbness that bloomed within him. He thinks it grew inside of him in defense, like walls around an ancient city, to protect him.  _ But protection from what? His own emotions? _ He finds that highly unlikely. Or maybe he finds it incredibly plausible. It had gotten to the point that did not even know any more. He can’t tell his own emotions. 

 

That makes him angry. Or mad. Or both. Maybe neither.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t know who he is. Not really.

 

When Agamemnon is around he is submissive and obedient, not unlike a well trained lapdog eager to please its master. He laughs at the man’s jokes, swallows his orders, and tells himself that Agamemnon’s sparse and meager compliments are enough. He is quiet, but expressive. He is an endless well of compliments, kissing Agamemnon’s ass at every turn because he knows that is what the man likes. 

 

When it is just him and Clytemnestra he transforms into someone else entirely. She, like her husband, likes to surround herself with people who stroke her ego and assure her of how clever she is, but unlike her husband she requires someone to compliment her physical appearance. Around her, Patroclus turns into a self-care obsessed fashion expert. His interests are shallow and each time he sees her he informs her that whatever pattern she’s currently wearing is the “new black”, and that his ex-boyfriend’s cousin works at fashion week. (This one is not a complete lie, but this connection does not gift him with the ability to suddenly be able to tell mink fur from snow leopard). He complains about Agamemnon and assures her that he doesn’t deserve her and that she can do better. He wears gel in his hair when she is around. He is the catty gay friend every forty year old white woman has always wanted. 

 

When all others are gone, leaving just him and his foster father’s brother, Menelaus, alone he feels himself transform once more. He cares about sports. He thinks Helen was a total bitch. He is exclusively attracted to women. He wears snapbacks and isn’t physically disgusted by cargo shorts. He is “so totally jealous, bro” of the tickets that Menelaus scored for this year’s National Football Match, and he is completely thankful when Menelaus gifts him his second ticket (his ex-wife hated sports anyway, and it would be nice to finally have someone who actually “cares” about football with him for once). He sits with his legs spread wide like he’s defending his couch cushion against invaders. Menelaus, thankfully, requires far less ass kissing than his brother and sister-in-law, and he isn’t afraid of comfortable silence. Patroclus can’t really tell, but he thinks he likes Menelaus better than the other two.

 

He can not help it. The changes he undergoes to please people are hardly done on purpose, and he can not make it stop. He hopes words of his flexible, moldable, personality has not been exchanged between the three. He would hate for them to see how desperate he really was. Or rather, he would hate for them to see how weak and pathetic he really was. 

 

He is no one. Not really. He is everyone. When he wants to be. He finds that exhausting. 

 

\---

 

He trains. For eight hours a day. 

 

He can fight. He can shoot. He can manipulate. He can flirt. He can speak French, Greek, and English. He can dance. He can seduce. He can kill. All with brutal efficiency. 

 

Agamemnon says that this is all apart of his plan. Patroclus doesn’t really see how everything he had learned will be needed, but he does not question Agamemnon. He never does. Instead he silently nods, clinging on to the man’s approval like a dying man gasping for air. When Patroclus does this, trains without complaining and stays quiet, he wonders if that behavior is what Agamemnon means when he says that Patroclus is “ _ perfect” _ for his plan. 

 

\---

 

_ A lion with green eyes and a name. _

 

_ \--- _

 

It is Patroclus’ twenty-second birthday. Agamemnon held a quiet celebration for him, like every other birthday he has had since coming into his care. Menelaus, Patroclus, Clytemnestra, and Agamemnon are all eating at an empty restaurant two towns over. 

 

“No one can know about you, not yet.” Clytemnestra whispers to him each year. It sounds like an apology, but Patroclus doesn’t know why she feels sorry. He has to be a secret. If he was not a secret then he could not follow through with Agamemnon’s plan and get his revenge. He would trade every birthday he has had for the chance to avenge his family. 

 

“Of course.” He whispers back and smiles. He is careful with his words when all three of them are around- he feels like there are three separate entities inside of him, pulling him apart at the semes. 

 

At dinner Agamemnon praises Patroclus. He calls him a great student, and says he has the utmost faith in him. He says that if anyone can take down  _ that brat _ it’s going to be him. It’s the only time Agamemnon has actually ever referred to himself as Patroclus’ “foster father”. Patroclus doesn’t know how to feel about that.

 

He orders the same food as Agamemnon, the same drink as Clytemnestra, and requests a corner piece of cake (just like Menelaus). 

 

“I’m sending you out tomorrow. To start the plan.” Agamemnon announces during the car ride back.

 

Patroclus’ blood freezes in his veins and he cannot breath. His lungs are going to burst. He’s never been so happy. 

 

He isn't sure what to say. “Thank you.” 

 

“I paid off a friend of his driver to tell me his schedule. He goes to a gay club downtown every Saturday night from 6-10, and according to the bartender he sits at the bar most of the night.” There is something like fire in Agamemnon’s eyes. Patroclus wonders if his eyes look like that. “With everything you’ve been taught, he should be putty in your hands.” 

 

He. Him.  _ A lion with green eyes.  _

 

“I will see to it that Achilles does not outlive the year.”  _ A lion with green eyes and a name.  _

 

“That's my boy.” Agamemnon pats his knee gently .

 

\---

 

That night, as he is falling asleep, Patroclus thinks about his parents. Eyes wide open in fear, unblinking; lying in pools of their own blood. His father’s neck bent at an awkward angle. He imagines golden hair and tanned skin lying by them- his next broken just like- no, worse- than his father’s had been. He imagines green eyes wide and unblinking in fear. He imagines himself wearing a lion's pelt.

 

That night, he kills the lion in his dreams. 

  
  



	2. Burnt Norton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "damn, baby, you could make a stripper jealous"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who helped me with this chapter (Jamie and Ashley I am endlessly thankful for all of your help ily <3), and thank you to everyone who left a comment or kudos on chapter 1 (that meant SO much I can't even tell you. 
> 
> I hope you all like chapter 2, and that I haven't disappointed! <3
> 
> Slight Warning: this chapter does get a bit NSFW towards the end (you're welcome)

Music blasted from all directions and strobe lights  illuminated the dance floor in a multitude of less-than-flattering colors. Patroclus has always hated social situations like these; it felt like being in the limo with Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, and Menelaus only forty times worse, but he pushed down his resentment in favor of focusing on the excitement that was surging through his veins.  _ Today _ Agamemnon had said with a light clap on the back  _ today is the day you will finally get your revenge _ . 

 

Patroclus crept about the club carefully, like a wounded tomcat, just as Agamemnon had taught him to. The most crucial part in their plan being that he did not go right up to his target, but instead danced around him and tried to catch his attention. Patroclus might not have been the only guy there, nor did he think he was necessarily the best looking guy there, but he was the only one trained in the art of seduction. He hoped that would be enough to earn the attention of the allegedly affectionless Achilles.   

 

Instead of going for a direct approach, he started out by dancing. He was purposeful in not starting out directly in Achilles’ line of sight, but through a series of switching partners and several songs, he ended up directly in front of Achilles. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his target looking at him with a gaze that was uninterested and dismissive at best. Patroclus’ gut bubbled with frustration when he saw this, but before it could grow into a fully felt emotion he heard Agamemnon’s voice in his head.  _ Things worth having never come easy, Patroclus. Your target is almost entirely emotionless and without basic human need thanks to his mother. Getting his attention will be hard work, and keeping his attention long enough to get him to take you somewhere private will be even harder. _ Resolve rose inside of him, renewed by the memory of his lessons, and he doubled his efforts. He turned to his left in the mob of writhing bodies and found another man to dance with- a blonde with hair almost identical to Achilles’- and danced lewdly against him. He threw his hips out in a way that exaggerated their round shape. He ran a hand up the side of his body, outlining their shape even more than his tight leather pants already did, and he was careful to exert enough control over his suggestive movements. The man he was grinding against murmured something in his ear along the lines of “ _ damn, baby, you could make a stripper jealous _ ” but the words were completely lost on Patroclus in his concentrated state. Without missing a beat, he threw his hips back against his dance partner. The anonymous blonde man let out a low groan, which prompted Patroclus to look over his shoulder (both to check on his dance partner and to see if he had made any progress in catching Achilles’ attention). Patroclus turned his head to look over his shoulder, plump lips parted and copper brown eyes lowered to a suggestive half-lidded look. He saw his date lick his lips in a sloppy way, single stragglers around the dance floor looking at him with the same type of unhindered lust one would expect, but above all, he saw his target’s hungry eyes boring into him: Achilles looked on at him with a mix of self hatred, bemusement, and want, but under all of that was a look so predatory in nature that it would frighten the average person.  _ A lion with green eyes.  _

 

The song came to an end, and the anonymous blonde he had been dancing with tried to say something to him. They were futile words, inane and selfish in purpose, about either buying him a drink or wanting to take him back to his apartment or  _ “Please, let me get your number at least” _ , but Patroclus ignored him, ignored everyone around him, and looked only at his target. The two made eye contact-- like emerald and copper meeting over a blacksmith’s fire-- , and something like electricity surged through Patroclus’ body. He decided that it was in his best interest to assume the feeling was just further excitement mixing with anticipation. He was closer than ever to his goal. All he had to do was walk forward, say a few flirty words, allow himself to be led back to some filthy bathroom stall, and take the life that had taken so much from him. 

 

He paused, brain momentarily stalling for a moment. The music seemed to cut off, the lights dimmed, and the desperate pleas that had been whispered into his ear all vanished within an instant. He focused back on where Achilles had been sitting at the bar, but found him gone and the lion from his dreams in his place. The other men and women that had been beside Achilles were all gone as well, just as the people that had been dancing by Patroclus. He looked on with equal parts horror and serenity. The lion snarled and growled at him; the noises echoed through his being and a calmness washed over him. He closed his eyes slowly and thought.  _ Tonight, I will kill the lion.  _ When he opened his eyes the music was blaring once more and the lights had returned, as had Achilles. His unresponsiveness seemed to have discourage his dancer partner, who had abandoned him in favor of another.  

 

Patroclus wasted no time in reinitiating eye contact with Achilles. His target’s green eyes were half-lidded and his pink lips were pulled into a grizzly smile. Achilles raised a  ~~_ paw  _ ~~ hand and motioned for Patroclus to take the seat next to him. The dark haired  ~~_ hunter  _ ~~ man nodded slowly and pulled his lips into a flattered smile. He moved forward slowly, suggestively, his hips rolling out in an exaggerated manner. With each step closer, he felt like a lamb leading itself to the slaughter. His stomach was churning. He was going to be sick.  _ A lion with green eyes.  _ The vision he had played over and over again in his brain.

 

“I like the way you look at me,” He leaned against the bar in the space next to his target; he made sure his words sounded a little more than a purr. 

 

Achilles’ perfectly crafted expression changed instantly into one of brief shock. Achilles had, according to Agamemnon, prided himself on being unreadable and unknowable.  _ “He wishes to be like a god. He wishes to know everything about everyone, but have no one know anything about him. He wishes to not be human.”  _ Patroclus had constructed his words to combat that-- crafted his words so that he could gently bring down Achilles’ walls before last call. Achilles had not expected someone to be trained to read him, could not prepare for someone like Patroclus, which the latter man hoped would play in his favor. The shock on Achilles’ face, though it only lasted a infinitesimal fraction of a second, morphed once again into an expression of smug doubt. “And how exactly do I look at you?” 

 

Patroclus laughed a stupid and ditzy laugh, more of a giggle really, and lowered his eyes. He looked up through his eyelashes, which had been exaggerated and darkened with the help of mascara earlier that night. He showed off his sluttiest smile. “Buy me a drink and maybe I’ll tell you.” 

 

“You’ve got a deal.” Achilles mulled out his jaw in a way that someone else might have found irresistible. In a way that Patroclus himself might have found irresistible had things been different. Achilles snapped his fingers twice, getting the attention of the bartender. “What do you want?”

 

“ _ Anything _ you want to buy me.” His words were slow -- his lips stretching and puckering delicately with each syllable -- and quiet. Quiet enough that Achilles was forced to lean in closer to Patroclus to hear him. 

 

“Money is certainly no object to me, sweetheart,” Achilles pulled out his wallet, flashing a Gold Card along with a golden smile, and handed it to the bartender. “Two vodka martinis please.” 

 

Patroclus did his ditzy laugh at the display and pretended to be wowed. He bit his lip and hoped what he was doing was stroking Achilles’ god-like ego enough. “I must admit I’m very,” he flicked his eyes up from Achilles’ eyes, to his lips, and down to the rest of his body “ _ impressed.  _ Can I get a name, big spender?” 

 

“Maybe,” Achilles winked and Patroclus did his laugh again. 

 

The bartender placed their drinks on the bar before each of them. Patroclus took his glass, acting like he didn't hate vodka, and drank it like the lush he was pretending to be.

 

“Achilles Peleides.” He held out a hand, and Patroclus took it delicately. Achilles brought Patroclus’ hand up, planting a soft kiss to the top of it, then turning it over and placing another kiss on the bottom of it. His mother used to do the same thing. His entire hand burned like he has just submerged it in a vat of acid. 

 

He swallowed down a wave of anger and violent thoughts, forcing an effortless sounding sigh of admiration past his throat. He bit his plump lips again and pretended like he was holding back a wooed smile. “I’m Patroclus Junius.”

 

“Now, are you going to tell me how you  _ think  _ I look at you?” Achilles’ honey smooth voice lost all of the flirtatious and jovial tone he had initially taken with Patroclus. His new tone was serious, testing, and deadly with the slightest edge of a primal growl underneath --  _ A lion with green eyes - _ \- but Patroclus told himself that he was just imagining that. Like the vision he ignored it and powered through to his goal. 

 

For what came next-- his response-- he used every last bit of his training. Patroclus strung his words together delicately as if he was sewing feathers to lace and made sure to show no fear; he was careful to do both and even more careful to keep his new minxy personality about him. He laughed and put a finger in his hair, twisting one of his curls around the digit. 

 

“You look at me…” He trailed off and cocked his head to the side, just far enough so some of his black curls spill over onto his face. The head tilt did as intended, which was to prompt Achilles to brush the hair out of his eyes. The skin he touched stung just like before. “Like a lion about to pounce. Like someone who's been waiting his whole life for someone else to make him feel like himself. Like someone who’s  _ really  _ going to make me work for it.”  

 

Achilles moved back, the hot air between them neither cooling nor further electrifying as he did. His expression was once again unreadable, but Patroclus assumed that he had done well by the way the blonde quirked his pink lips into an odd smile. He squinted his eyes, but the green color Patroclus knew them to be was lost in the darkness of the club. “Who sent you?” 

 

“What?” Patroclus smiled slightly, feigning innocence. When it looked like Achilles wouldn't believe his innocence act he switched to his backup: faux offense. “Look, if you think I'm some kind prostitute I'm --” he paused for a moment, putting the final strokes on the canvas that was the personality he had crafted for Achilles. “Well, I'll be honest, I'm a little flattered,” he primped, soothing out his shirt and tousling his hair “but I'm not. I'm just a college student trying score a free drink or two, let off some steam, and maybe get the chance to blow a cute rich guy.” 

 

Achilles threw his hands up at his sides, his smile now ever so slightly wider. Patroclus could tell he was trying to cover up his question. He couldn't blame the guy-- after all, if he really had been talking to  _ “just a college student”  _ he couldn't exactly tell him what he really did for a living and why he would assume Patroclus to be an assassin of some sort. Not without scaring him off, anyway. “Alright, alright, my bad. Let me make it up to you?” 

 

“It is the least you could do.” Patroclus pouted and looked up at him through his dark eyelashes. 

 

Achilles leaned forward and a bronze hand found its way to Patroclus’ leather clad thigh. Another brushed against his recently shaven chin and lifted Patroclus’ face up. Achilles pressed a quick but suggestive kiss to Patroclus’ mouth. “Why don't we get out of here then?” 

 

Patroclus wanted to cut his lips off. He wanted to live in a body that had never been touched by Achilles Peleides. He leaned forward and initiated another kiss with his target. “I would love to. Free of charge.” 

 

Achilles laughed at that and took his hand. 

The man had a charm and charisma that even Patroclus, despite the grudge that he had harboring for ten years, couldn't deny, and as he let Achilles lead him out of the club the found himself thinking  _ had things been different I would have- _

 

_ he would have-  _

 

_ my parents would have-  _

 

\---

 

The sex was nothing special. Not for Patroclus. Though he was sure Achilles found their intertwining to be mind blowing, electric, and filled with something resembling total adoration, but that was all due to Patroclus’ training. 

 

However, as he moved his lips down Achilles’ perfectly sculpted abdomen to where his budding erection sat sometime halfway through their second round, he realized he was more similar to a prostitute than he had ever thought.  _ What is a prostitute really?  _ He asked himself while he nearly choked on Achilles (he played it off as a moan before he could gag, which earned him a half lidded moan and fingers gripping his hair like they aimed to pull it out of his scalp).  _ It's someone who participates in sexual acts in exchange for goods and services. I'm fucking Achilles so I can kill him. Right?  _ Achilles yanked Patroclus back and off of him by his hair. Patroclus responded with a gasp and desperately tried to wipe the drool off of his chin. 

 

“Come here,” Achilles whispered and Patroclus let himself be lead back up into a sloppy, almost disgusting, kiss. The blonde pulled back, breathless, and smiling. “You're beautiful.” 

 

Patroclus realized their sex wouldn't exactly be free of charge, not if he was still making Achilles pay with his life. Patroclus realized that there wasn't even a reason for him to have had sex, let alone two rounds of it, with Achilles. He had allowed Achilles to touch him. All of him-- every last inch of his body. It burned. It stung. It hurt. Oh  _ gods  _ it  _ hurt.  _

He could have taken him out hours ago when they were first left alone in his room, but instead he had allowed himself to lean into  _~~the lion’s~~ _ Achilles’ acidic touch. Maybe Patroclus wanted to do this to himself. Maybe he wanted to hurt-- to feel pain like his mother and father had in their final moments. 

 

_ Why did I let him fuck me? _

 

Patroclus smiled up at him. He did another stupid laugh and tried to sound just as breathless. “Thank you,” he snaked a hand up Achilles’ bare thigh and up and up and up. “You're not too bad yourself.” 

 

“I've been told as much.” He pulled his lips tight again this skin. Patroclus didn't miss the entertained twinkle in his eyes. Achilles had assumed Patroclus had no idea who he really was, and therefore no idea what he really thought of himself.

 

Agamemnon’s words echoed in Patroclus’ mind again.  _ “Achilles -- it's like he wants to be a god. Like he already sees himself as so.”  _  Patroclus rested his head against Achilles’ knee and breathed out a soft sigh, his breath tickling the delicate blonde hairs that had grown in between his thighs. There was a brief moment of silence, during which Patroclus looked up at Achilles and Achilles’ hands strengthened its grip on Patroclus’ hair. 

 

“Don't tire on me already, sweetheart.  _ I'm not done with you yet _ .” Achilles probably thought his predatory tone of voice to be sexy, but in reality it chilled Patroclus to his core. Memories Patroclus has tried so hard to repressed welled up within him again, and it was all Patroclus could do to keep from breaking his act. 

 

He ignored it, just like he had ignored everything else, and lifted himself up further onto his knees to give Achilles another sloppy kiss. Achilles used the same tone of voice to seduce that he used when he killed. Patroclus decided he would do the same. 

 

\---

 

Sometimes in his dreams, the lion would play with the hunters before he would kill them. He would run, making the hunters chase after him only so that could pounce on them from an unseen spot. Other times he would hurt them only to retreat and act like he was giving their mangled bodies a chance to escape, only to kill them when they least expected it.  ~~_ Achilles  _ ~~ The lion liked to to torture his prey-- to break their spirits. Patroclus decided he would do the same. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank You So Much For Reading! Have a wonderful day <3


End file.
